Ace Carroway and the Deadly Violin: The Adventures of Ace Carroway, #6

By Guy Worthey

War heroine and intrepid crime solver Cecilia "Ace" Carroway specializes in cheating death, but she's never encountered a murderous musical instrument before. Violinist P. Charles Derkin is the latest owner of the deadly violin, and he's a nervous wreck. Ever since he inherited the famous Cremona Cannon, nightly noises and ghostly lights disturb his slumber. If he manages to fall sleep, violin-related nightmares jolt him awake again. When he discovers that the violin's two previous owners each died in horrific "accidents," he enlists Ace and her danger-loving associates.

 

Moments after Ace takes the case, Derkin narrowly escapes death by falling masonry. Ace will have to solve the mystery before the mystery puts Derkin six feet under.

 

But what – or who – could be putting Charles Derkin in peril? Is it mysterious paranormal forces? Is it Filbert Monocles, the diminutive director of the violin's security organization? Is it Isabella Rosavino, the vivacious Italian photographer?

 

Ace's probing is not appreciated by the evil forces at work. Soon, the violin's circle of danger expands to include Ace, then tightens like a hangman's noose. When Derkin and his violin are kidnapped, Ace will need all of her wits, her swashbuckling partners, and an airship to have a hope of saving him before they both become the next victims of – THE DEADLY VIOLIN.

 

 

This book contains: An Irishman's blarney. Rope ladders. A papier mâché tree trunk. Reckless driving. Radio tracking equipment. Canadians. Motorcycles. Mercy bullets. Regular bullets. A monocle. A transatlantic pursuit. A blush from Ace. A spy named Tim. Those adorable associates of hers. The star-fortress of Copenhagen. Vivaldi's Winter.

 

Ace Carroway and the Deadly Violin is sixth in the Adventures of Ace Carroway series. Content rating: teen.

 

• Language: English
• Publisher: Westing Press
• Release date: Nov 10, 2020
• ISBN: 9781393418818

Book preview

Chapter 1

P. CHARLES DERKIN! blurted the underfed man, hands busy mangling the hat he had just removed from his head.

How do you spell that last name? nasally inquired the receptionist. She peered up at the supplicant over the edges of half-glasses perched on her nose and secured around her neck by a light silver chain. Mrs. Figgins ached to eject the nervous fellow. But then, Mrs. Figgins had a strong desire to send everyone that walked into the spotless C. Carroway and Associates office back to the dirty streets of New York from whence they came.

D-E-R-K-I-N, the man dutifully spelled for the formidable dame behind the desk. He stopped mutilating his hat for a moment to run fingers through light brown, swept-back hair.

Nature of the problem, droned Mrs. Figgins.

I think I— P. Charles Derkin swallowed convulsively. He mopped at his brow, first with his abused hat and then (after a hasty search) with a silk handkerchief. He leaned toward Mrs. Figgins’s ear and resumed with a tremulous whisper. I think I’m about to die, horribly!

I don’t think so, sir. I’m barely even angry, Mrs. Figgins deadpanned. Have you talked to the police?

Derkin ground his teeth together. The Canadian Mounties, yes. But never again. Out of the question! To my front, the police would ask about how many drinks I’d had. And behind my back, they would joke and snicker. Just like the Mounties did.

Is there a history of insanity in your family?

No! The Derkins of Toronto are beyond reproach! Now, look here, miss, this is no joking matter! I’m serious.

So are we, Mr. Derkin. As serious as they come. Mrs. Figgins’s eyes flicked downward. On her desk but hidden from the client’s view, a tiny electric light winked on, bright green in color. The detectives wanted an interview. Her severe expression inched more toward disapproving. Reluctantly, Mrs. Figgins forced her lips to move. Have a seat in the lounge ... Her jaw worked, and her sour face grew a shade more lemony. ... please. Someone will see you shortly.

Derkin was about thirty-five, of medium height, and seemed an indoors type. His proud shock of sandy brown hair flared away from a sensitive face set with blue, intelligent eyes. His suit hung loosely on his spare, almost bony frame. He stepped toward the third-floor windows overlooking Wall Street. The lounge consisted of the open space between Mrs. Figgins’s array of desks and the windowed wall. Comfortable chairs circled an oval rug.

He glanced outside. Like the New Yorkers scurrying along the sidewalks, he gave no sign that he appreciated the soaring architectural marvels of the city. He was blind to the expansive blue sky dotted with roaming cloud puffballs. Instead, he perched straight-backed on the front two inches of a seat. He fidgeted with his hat, which suffered further under the aimless creasing and spindling.

The severe receptionist took up her stenographer’s pad and a freshly sharpened pencil. A second woman emerged from a door opposite the lounge, headed for Derkin. Mrs. Figgins fell into step behind her with choreography worthy of the ballet, heels clicking on the tile floor like castanets.

The new woman could have rested her chin on Mrs. Figgins’s gray-sprinkled head without standing on tiptoe. Short, unruly golden hair blended with her skin tones. A simple flight suit with a wide belt clad her lithe frame.

Mrs. Figgins said, P. Charles Derkin. Cecilia Carroway. She promptly folded into a seat and flipped to a blank page in her shorthand book.

Carroway’s right eyebrow rose a millimeter. In a controlled, vibrant contralto, she said, The concertmaster of the Toronto Symphony, unless I am mistaken. A pleasure to make your acquaintance, Mr. Derkin.

By Corelli’s cornet, what refreshing words! I suddenly feel that I’m in the right place, after all! Derkin sent a brief sneer to Mrs. Figgins. Mrs. Figgins noticed the sneer about as much as a sea turtle notices a rainstorm. She prepared to transcribe the conversation in shorthand.

Carroway and Derkin shook hands. Four parallel slashes across the dark skin of her cheek and temple drew his attention. The scars marked her lean, decisive face with lines of dire experience. Across his face, traces of a hopeful smile tentatively flitted.

The woman in the flight suit settled into a seat. Why don’t you start at the beginning. Tell us what brought you here, Mr. Derkin.

Derkin had forgotten to be tense. What brought me here was a chance meeting with an old acquaintance at Grand Central Station. I said I was in a tizzy, and she recommended I try Carroway and Associates.

Who was that?

Marilyn Murchison is her name.

Both of Carroway’s eyebrows raised. Makes sense. We managed her case[1] rather well, in the end. I had no idea she was back in town. But why don’t you start further back. At the beginning.

The beginning? Well, I suppose it was the phone call from Filbert Monocles. He said I’d inherited the Cremona Cannon.

A new male voice rolled an interjection. Canon: a musical tune with a melody that overlaps itself. A blond fellow with a trim beard approached. A darker-haired gentleman followed, impeccably dressed in a suit with matching lapel pin, cuff links, and tie bar.

Cecilia Carroway glanced at the handsome pair. Have a seat, Quack. Have a seat, Bert. Her golden irises flicked back to Derkin. These are two of my associates. Fellas, this is the violinist P. Charles Derkin.

Hello, Derkin said.

The two newcomers settled on chairs.

Carroway glanced at the blond fellow. Wrong sort of canon, Quack.

Bert spoke in a New England twang, So Quack is wrong. No surprise, there.

More than you knew, Bert. The blond’s rugged face remained placid. Not the musical canon, Ace? What, then?

The cannon in ‘Cremona Cannon’ is the big gun sort of cannon, but figuratively, not literally. Carroway’s eyes swiveled to the violinist, where they stayed, sifting and judging. The Cannon is a violin. A very old violin with a curious history. It comes from Cremona, the town where Antonio Stradivari had his shop, but most assume it was made either by a student or a competitor because it does not conform to the shape favored by Stradivari. Some believe that Stradivari’s hands did carve it, but that it was an experimental instrument. Apparently, it never contained a maker’s label. It’s called a cannon because it is so loud. Its sound can easily fill a concert hall.

A masterful summary. Brava! said Derkin, with an emphatic nod that sent a wave through his longish, glossy hair. But it can also be whisper quiet. It can soar in flights of romance or lightly dance to the precision required by Mozart. It can be smooth as glassy waters or brassy and bold as crashing ocean waves. The Cremona Cannon is among the very best violins in the world. And Filbert Monocles called me out of the blue and told me I had inherited it!

Quack rolled the name off his tongue. Who is Fill-bert Mon-o-kleeze?

Bert smirked. Filbert Monocles translates from the Greek as ‘he who eats only a single nut.’

Oh, haw, haw, muttered Quack blackly.

The name is not familiar to me. Carroway studied Derkin. His clothing. His rumpled hat. His slender fingers.

The violinist’s rush of words gushed like water undammed. Filbert Monocles works for I.S.P.H.A., the International Society for the Preservation of Historical Artifacts. The Cremona Cannon had belonged to Ekaterina Brusikova. Perhaps you know her or her work. No? Well, she was the fieriest of Prussian virtuosi. Her European tour was critically acclaimed, and that was before she inherited the Cannon! But back to Mr. Monocles. He called and said that Ekaterina had passed away and that I was named the next heir to the Cremona Cannon! You can imagine my shock. Pleasure, to be sure, but also a sense of responsibility. There is only one Cremona Cannon. It is irreplaceable.

Why were you named as heir in Ekaterina Brusikova’s will? asked dark-haired Bert. His full name was Hubert Ewing Devery Christopher Bostock III, Boston-area lawyer and noted icon of men’s fashion. It sounded as if you knew her mostly by reputation. And you’re not in her family, are you?

No, no. I never met her in person. A couple of months ago, I did get a letter explaining that I was heir to the Cremona Cannon, but at the time, I paid no attention. Maybe ‘heir’ isn’t quite the right word, but the process works like inheritance. The violin belongs to me as if it were on loan to me, but the ISPHA oversees the inheritance part, so I can’t just dispose of it. Derkin had gained a good deal of composure by now, to the great benefit of his hat, which lay forgotten on the seat beside him. Some three weeks after the phone call, Filbert Monocles delivered the Cannon to me. He had been travelling with the instrument from Danzig, in Prussia, to Toronto the whole time. His people wheeled it into my house.

Bert’s forehead creased. I thought violins were small and dainty.

Derkin barked a short laugh, revealing pleasant crow’s feet at the corners of his eyes. They wheeled in its safe, I mean. The instrument travels in a very heavy steel safe. Before I could even see it, I was made to fill out the paperwork. I had to name the next heir, then and there.

Bert’s forehead wrinkled, and his eyebrows shot up. Really, now? How interesting. It’s similar to inheritance in the legal sense. So who is the next heir?

It wasn’t that hard to name one. Derkin languidly gestured with a lean, long-fingered hand. Monocles told me that it had to be a world-class violinist. One who could appreciate the Cremona Cannon and one who would play it for the pleasure of audiences. I chose young Sarah Street, that Californian you’ve no doubt heard of.

Bert’s and Quack’s faces stayed blank. Derkin’s lips compressed. Erm. Or not, as the case may be. At any rate, now I wish I hadn’t. I wish I had named some political figure that should be assassinated. A pity I don’t follow politics. Derkin recovered his hat and renewed his program of attempted mutilation upon the hapless felt brim. "I don’t